


Light and Thunder

by ProspertheXVIII



Category: The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert (1994)
Genre: Angst, Assault, Drag Queens, Family, Gen, Les Girls, Pre-Movie(s), Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9959753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProspertheXVIII/pseuds/ProspertheXVIII
Summary: The backstage dressing room of Les Girls was utter chaos. Feathery, glitzy, obnoxiously loud chaos. Once a show was done for the night, the bunch of them were prone to laying around until all hours of the morning doing fuck all - talking conquests and costumes whilst the daiquiris flowed. It was a good atmosphere; safe and homey as total disarray could possibly feel. And when one of their own falls victim to an awful hate crime, naturally they all stand by her to help pick up the pieces. Follow-up of sorts to 'Pouring'.





	1. Chapter 1

Middle-aged man with a slight beer gut and a widow's peak in her day job - albeit with flawless eyebrows and a fantastic manicure - Ivy Dee leaned over her dressing table; near-sightedly squinting into the mirror as she attempted to apply her false lashes; still costumeless save for a corset, fake tits, and tucking panties - turning and looking daggers at the younger queen behind her, who was gyrating her hips and virtually dry-humping the wall in time to Hot Stuff.  
  
"Darla, sweetheart, if you think that's gonna get you any action of any kind, then you've got another thing coming," she quipped as Darla Swallows's padded arse knocked into her own, causing her body to jerk and her hand to smear eyelash glue down her face.   
"You never know," she responded with equal measures of snark, checking her hair in Ivy's mirror, pouting and pushing up her breasts. "Rock Hudson might be sitting in that audience, ready to spirit me and my fantastic bum away to a better life."

"If he is, I call dibs. He's too bloody old for you." Fabrizia Force-It-In interjected somewhere from behind the two of them.   
"And we aren't even going to be able to spirit gum at this rate - where the fuck's Bernadette? She's on in two minutes and I have't seen head nor tail of her." Ivy fanned at her wide-open eyes with a hand to try and dry her lash glue; turning and perching on the edge of her makeup table.   
"She's probably just hung over or passed out in some rando's flat. Just like she was the last time, and the time before that," Farrah Moan quipped, her arms braced against a wall as Miss Demeanour stood with a foot on her back, tightening her corset.   
"True - I think she's probably fucked more people than I've had hot meals in my life. Somebody remind me how on earth she's not already dead of AIDS?"   
"Because unlike some people, she has a modicum of common sense." Ivy looked directly at Darla - the other queen rolled her eyes, scoffing.  
"That was one time! And you were there too - don't act like you were just at the clap clinic for the fuck of it. People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, Ivy my darling."   
"Oh, go and suck a dick. It might get some of whatever the hell is up with you out of your system."

"Gladly." 

Ivy sat down, turning back to her makeup and massaging her right temple with her index and middle fingers. A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed, punctuated only by Darla's obnoxious humming; off-key and loud, with the occasional lyric thrown in just to prove that she knew at least some of the song. She finished applying her lipstick, before standing up to select a pair of boobs from the drawers under the dressing table, and padding her hips out; the extra weight that had come with her increasing age was useful in a sense - a feminine shape was easier to achieve now with less padding, though it did mean cinching her waist to the point that she more-or-less couldn't breathe or bend over. The thought of Bernie's disappearing act was playing on her mind; she had met her way back when she'd been a he, about seventeen years ago. Being her drag mother - her name had even been semi-Ivy's idea. She'd called herself Bernadette for Ms Lafont, but 'Bassinger' (a play on 'bass singer') had been entirely Ivy's - had given the ageing queen an invariable soft spot for the woman, and she'd always worried about her. She had the snark of a thousand, but she seemed mostly all bark and no bite; people would interpret her verbal defence systems as taking the piss out of them - which it was, she supposed, to an extent - and respond by kicking the shit out of her because they didn't know what else to do. And her status as transsexual added its own other level of danger - all besides a very specific breed of man seemed to utterly revile her simply for being what she was. Ivy had been the first person she'd told - estranged from her own mother, she'd embraced Ivy as a surrogate, and even years on, still came running to ask Nana to pick up the pieces when things went awry. Pulling up fishnet stockings and stuffing her feet into a pair of shoes that only just fit, she breathed a heavy sigh - turning once again to the others.

"I'm getting worried now - where the hell is she? This isn't like her."

"Ivy, you're getting worked up over nothing."  
"And what if it isn't nothing? She left so bloody early last night - what if she's gone home with somebody who didn't realise that she's not all..." She gestured to her crotch. "And they've hurt her or something?"

"Well, she's a damn sight closer to the real thing than the rest of us - if I was into that sort of thing I don't think I'd care." Farrah shrugged, sitting down by Ivy's side and putting an arm around her shoulders.   
"I just worry about her...y'know...going full-time, as it were. It's like taking the risk level we have, then putting it on steroids."

"You mean oestrogen," Darla cut in again, snorting like a pony at her own joke.   
"One more derogatory word, Darla, and I will personally hand-deliver you back to your friend from the other week. Would you like that?" Darla remained silent, folding her arms. It happened too often, but even so it was still difficult when something happened to any of them. The previous fortnight, Fabrizia had come off-stage to find the rest of the troupe in a panicked huddle around the phone; Darla sobbing on the other end, in hospital with bruised ribs, concussion, and a chipped front tooth after chatting up the wrong man. Ivy continued after taking a breath, still scowling at the other queen. "Bernadette's done fuck-all to upset you, now would you leave off? It's just bloody childish."

She put her head in her hands; the oldest and most experienced of the Les Girls - verging on fifty-five, with thirty-one years of treading the boards under her belt - meant that the role of the group's mother hen had fallen on her shoulders. Not something which she particularly minded most of the time, but having seen almost everyone in the room bloody-faced and broken-nosed at least once, herself included, she was wont to assume the worst whenever any of her girls was a no-show when they were on the roster for a performance. She stood up, grabbing her dress off of the hanger on the lit-up mirror and pulling it over her shoulders as she walked purposefully towards the phone - spray-painted pink and done up to the nines with feathers and rhinestones. "Well, we can't keep them waiting all night - the show must go on. Missy, you go cover for Bernie just now; Darla, you can take her place for the _Fine Romance_ routine if she hasn't shown up by then." She picked up the receiver, holding it to her ear with her shoulder as she punched in Bernadette's home number.

_

"No joy?" The show was almost over, most of the queens now pulling on matching camisole dresses and feather boas for the closing number; Farrah came in off of the stage, pulling her wig off and abandoning it on a table; her wig cap following not long after as she scratched at her head and tried to arrange her hair into some semblance of order. Ivy had one hand supporting her lolling head; her eyes half-open and a cigarette hanging from between her lips. She shook her head defeatedly.   
"I've tried her flat at least ten times, and her neighbour's twice - he answered. Apparently she didn't come home last night. So, I still have no idea where the hell she is, and now it's just become even more plausible that she's dead in a gutter somewhere."  
"Well, try her parents. Oh wait..." Darla feigned innocence before breaking into an obnoxious seagull squawk of a laugh; hushed very quickly indeed as Ivy threw the phone at her, answering machine and all. She fell to the ground with a satisfying thud; when she sat up, an enormous red welt had come about on her forehead. "Jesus fuck, Ivy, you wankstain - calm your tits!"  
"No - I understand that this is utterly hilarious for you, but I am genuinely concerned here - it's been two fucking hours since the start of the show - that's three and a half from when she's usually here. And I tried to call her earlier today, and it rang straight through..." she trailed off, turning her face away and rubbing her eyes to keep tears at bay. Farrah pulled her into an embrace, mouthing at Darla to stop being a dick.   
"Come on, doll - I bet it'll turn out to be nothing. Hell, knowing her she's either passed out drunk from last night, or asleep on her couch from staying up all night." She rubbed Ivy's shoulders, kissing her cheek in an attempt at comforting her.  
"I don't know what to do, Farrah...I've tried bloody everything - I thought something was wrong earlier when she didn't pick up her phone; I should have done something about that then..." She dropped her head onto Farrah's shoulder; the other patting her hair consolingly. "Tell me what to do, please..."  
"She'll turn up alright, sweetheart," Darla perched on the edge of the table, returning the phone that had just been lobbed at her head, and taking Ivy's hand as the other woman flopped against the support of Farrah's body; Ivy squeezed her fingers tight, a thin-lipped grimace on her face. "Look, I'll put ten dollars on her having had a wild night of _amaaazing_ sex with some absolute stud fifteen years younger than her who's hung like a stallion, and now she's too hung over to move and too fucked to walk - she'll turn up alright. Then we can all laugh about this together, and you'll realise that you're being a silly bugger." 

"I think you've just lost ten dollars - that's very specific." Fabrizia chuckled, sidling over to them and sitting down on the floor. "You're lucky if half the cocksuckers you scrape off the floor in this place are hung like bloody voles - forget a stallion. But I'm with you in that she's likely just woken up in some stranger's apartment with a splitting headache and an STI, and forgot to turn up." Ivy chuckled - mostly at the notion of Bernadette walking in at that moment and verbally decapitating them all for slandering her in her absence. She was slowing down a little now compared to her twenties, but she was still a wretched slut - that much was true enough. 

"Look, just to put your mind at ease, shall I drop the hospital a line?" Farrah pulled the tone back to a serious one. "That way if they don't know where she is, then she's probably alright. And if something has happened, we'll know she's in safe hands." Ivy nodded weakly; Darla looking scathingly at the telephone.  
"I really wish you hadn't done that - I look like I was dropped on my face at birth; I swear this fucking bruise is getting more swollen by the minute."

"Well, at least the bump on your head's bigger than your prick," Farrah simpered, plugging the device back in and dialling the number; Darla's expression metamorphosizing into one if a pissed-off toddler. 

The conversation went on for about five minutes; Farrah was seeming to do a lot of 'mm-hmm'-ing and nodding, her expression growing more and more grave with every word. Hanging up, she sighed heavily - Darla looking worriedly to her. 

"Well?"   
She shook her head. "The good news is now we know where she is. The bad news is...well, everything else. A couple of girls found her unconscious and beaten to a pulp at the side of the pavement and brought her in at about four in the morning - she's in a bad way. She's broken her collarbone, her ribs are 60% fucked, and her face is a mess." Ivy screwed up her face as she tried not to cry, biting her knuckle to force herself to keep quiet; Farrah stroking her back in an attempt at reassurance. "I'm so sorry, Ivy."  
Darla had been rendered silent by the whole thing, her face dropping. "Did you get to speak to her?" The younger queen asked softly, wringing her hands. 

Farrah shook her head again, wearing a thin-lipped smile. "Receptionist."  
"I need to go to her," Ivy muttered, her eyes still screwed shut to keep the tears in. "She's all alone and she's probably scared shitless, I need to be with her."

"Ivy, that's insane. It's midnight for one - seeing you like this won't do anything but upset her, and besides, you're not her mother."

"I'm as good as," she responded with venom, scowling; before her murderous expression disintegrated into a melancholy one, and she broke out into heartbroken sobs, crying stormily into Farrah's shoulder. "I shouldn't have let her bloody leave...I knew it wasn't safe, I knew that she shouldn't have gone out on her own, but what did I go and let her fucking do?"  
"Ivy, you weren't to know..." Darla grimaced, Ivy wiping away black snail-trails of mascara on her white evening glove, leaving behind a grey smear down the length of her arm.   
"Don't blame yourself, darling - you absolutely cannot blame yourself," Farrah took both of her hands and squeezed them tight; Ivy brightening for an instant, before crumpling into sobs once again. She sucked her teeth, her eyes welling up. "These things happen to the best of us, and you can't account for them - it's too early to tell what's going to happen, and it's much too late to change anything. When you start to apportion blame, that just leads to self-hatred. You need to be strong - for her sake, if not yours."

 

_

_Maybe it's a sign of weakness when I don't know what to say_

_Maybe I just wouldn't know what to do with my strength anyway_

_Have we become a habit? Do we distort the facts?_

_Now there's no looking forward_

 

_Now there's no turning back..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI~  
> As they're out of drag in this scene, all of the Les Girls characters from the previous chapters are referred to with male pronouns and they 'boy' names.   
> Nigel = Ivy  
> Finn = Farrah  
> Oliver = Darla   
> Noah = Miss Demeanour   
> Logan = Fabrizia

> _Many times I tried to tell you_   
>  _Many times I cried alone_   
>  _Always I'm surprised how well you cut my feelings to the bone_   
>  _Don't want to leave you really_   
>  _I've invested too much time to give you up that easy_   
>  _To the doubts that complicate your mind_

_We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder_   
_We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under_   
_Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better_   
_We belong, we belong,_

_We belong together._

___

Bernadette was fucking miserable, as she'd been since what had happened two nights ago. Her pain had managed to transcend her initial embarrassment and upset - her body was agony; she hadn't slept a wink in days, thus her exhaustion was equal parts unbearable, and so great that it was almost tangible; and between her swollen lips, fractured jaw, and the state of her broken teeth (mercifully mostly at the back of her mouth) she'd scarcely eaten, so her stomach was beginning to feel more-or-less like it was digesting itself; she was only being kept sane by the opiates being pumped into her veins via the cannula inserted into her hand. However, between the morphine and the concussion, her brain was mush - her thoughts going around in circles, between the guilt of having told nobody, and flashbacks to what had happened. The wounds were metaphorically and physically still raw, so this was profoundly unwelcome. She'd seen the damage twice now - both when she'd grown sick of the indignity of bedpans and insisted on making a stumbling visit to the bathroom; a nurse supporting her by her functioning arm. Her other was held close to her body, supported in a sling with her clavicle forming a jutting angle out from her decolletage. Her face had been a hundred times worse than she'd expected and then some - the sclera of her right eye flooded with scarlet, the same eye swollen half-closed with two stitches in her brow. Her top lip had ballooned, another three sutures in that, coated in a layer of black coagulated blood. A three-inch section of her scalp along her hairline had been stapled back together; the skin split by that hideous signet ring on his middle finger that had left bloody craters in her face as reminders of exactly where the punches had fallen on her ruined face. Her hair had been scraped away from her face in a lazy ponytail - locks still matted up to the roots with congealed blood, and a good three inches at her roots grease-laden and tangled; her breasts held down by the wrappings of her broken ribs - she felt as though she'd reverted back to the flat-chested state of her twentysomething state, unused to looking down on herself without her bust getting in the way. This feeling was bizarre, and entirely unwelcome - it simply served to make her feel even less like herself than she already did, what with her face practically unrecognisable even to herself.

She'd rejected making a statement to the police - she knew that they'd simply have called it 'transsexual panic' and let him off without doing bugger all. Yes, it was trans panic in a sense - but that didn't make it okay. Calling the mess that he had made of her a panic response was a piss-poor justification.

She was full to bursting with regrets - wishing that she had tried to retaliate, or tried to run away. Wished that she hadn't brusquely told Ivy to piss off when she'd told her that going out alone at this time wasn't safe. The bloody rain had been her excuse, and what had that done but almost killed her with hypothermia. She had cried a lot to begin with - but this had subsided to numbness, used now to feeling chronically unhappy. Annoyingly enough, even after all these years, she still wanted her mother. She was desperate for comfort - somebody to sit by her side to ward away the loneliness and avert her mind from the negativity; to hold her hand and tell her that everything was alright. She had convinced herself out of necessity that she didn't need anybody besides herself a long time ago - but this belief was beginning to falter. She had accepted defeat - she wanted a shoulder to cry on, and she wanted it badly.

Les Girls was her chosen family after her own had rejected her. And it was now more than ever that she was realising just how badly she needed them. She would have given her right arm simply to see any of them - she wanted Ivy's comfortingly maternal embrace; Farrah's sweet, softly-spoken words of hope and resiliance; Fabrizia's eloquent humour and Missy's kind smile. Hell, even if she was an obnoxious human tornado with a mouth like a sailor and a head full of smut, even Darla would have been more than welcome. They were chaotic, yes - they were all over-dramatic poofs who lived to make mountains out of molehills and start drama, sure. They all drank to excess, fucked the brains out of anything that moved, and spent all their days with a cigarette in hand - but then again, so did she. They were her people, and she missed them all. But alas, she had to be realistic. This was unfair on each and every one of them - seeing her in the state she was in was virtually a punishment in itself, and she didn't want anybody to start to try and apportion blame.

She squirmed unrestfully, trying to get comfortable and failing - her head was pounding even still, so lying down wasn't the most comfortable of activities. Bugger it - she wanted somebody there for her; so desperately that it was virtually tearing what was left of her to shreds. Pursing her lips as she tried to force herself not to start crying again, she gulped back a sob - once again consumed by that inexplicable guilt, and the persistent sensation of utter wretchedness that had been hanging over her like a stormcloud since that night.

_

"Bloody hell, guys - I can't keep up."  
"Well, walk faster," Finn quipped, waiting by the lift with the other three - Oliver trailing some twenty feet behind, dragging his feet.  
"My head's splitting," he moaned, picking at a loose false nail and muttering under his breath.  
"Well, that's what you get for staying out all night, slut." Nigel rolled his eyes; unable to stifle a laugh as Logan threw his head back, gyrating his hips and pressing his rear end against the wall, singing Hot Stuff under his breath.   
"You're all a bunch of arseholes," he scoffed, his face stony. "Y'know, I'm beginning to think that Bernie's the lucky one here; at least she's getting away from all of this shit." It was at this comment that a collective hush fell on the group; lips pursing, hands wringing, and glances falling to the floor. Oliver blushed scarlet, aware that he'd spoken out of turn as they all bundled into the elevator. Looking around, he noted that Nigel was fervently chewing at his bottom lip - twitchy, and seemingly hyper-charged with some sort of negative energy; unable to stand still or stop fidgeting. He was still concerning himself far too much with what had happened to Bernadette, and how he could construe the whole awful mess as being somehow his fault. Poor dear. And poor bloody Bernie as well - he dreaded to think what kind of sick bastard a person had to be to do what had been done to her. He knew deep down that it was entirely likely that his own presence would be largely unwelcome by the patient, but it was a combination of pity and morbid curiosity that had dragged him along. He wanted to see her partly for the sake of seeing just how bad it was, and partly because he felt somehow obliged to be there for her in her hour of need, whether she liked it or not. Their relationship had always been precarious at best - a moronic rivalry when Bernadette had been in her early twenties and Oliver slightly younger, regarding a poster had been what had set it off. He'd maintained for years that Darla Swallows was the more deserving face of Les Girls, but he couldn't have remained bitter forever - he wasn't a child, after all. Their friendship nowadays extended mostly to polite small talk, and holding one another's hair out of the way whilst they spewed into the gutter on pissed-up nights out, when the crowd of them wandered the streets, drunk off their arses and apparently hellbent on total self-destruction - doomed from the start thanks to their clashing personalities, and irreparably damaged by their petty rivalry. Whatever. He felt as though he had to be there for some reason or another.

Ward Nine. Nigel had given up on following the colour-coded lines on the floor, bashfully asking a nurse for directions as the five stood in a huddle; Finn toting an overnight bag full of clothes and other such paraphernalia retrieved from Bernie's flat by Nigel earlier that morning - Noah a bouquet of flowers. They had left the car park chatting and bantering as per, but as they had wandered through beige and magnolia corridors, the hospital smell penetrating their nostrils, and a thick atmosphere of looming dread hanging in the air, they had quietened to eventual silence; heads bowed and minds filled with thoughts of worry. It was never pleasant when something like this happened to one of their own - yet knowing that she was here was still somehow comforting. As Finn had pointed out, she could so easily be lying dead somewhere; at least the knowledge that she was somewhere safe, if battered and bruised, brought some comfort.

Escorted to the closed door of a private room, they stood trying to squint through the frosted glass panel in the door; glimpsing only a faint outline of a human-ish shape; blonde hair and a hospital gown. Nigel breathed a heavy sigh, before eventually biting the bullet and walking into the room.

She was lying on her back, her face turned away to one side; the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest being all that really signified that anybody was home - and even that seemed reluctant, as though she was only carrying on because she had to. A glass fang was hooked into her hand, tubes and wires coming from it, attached to the bags of clear fluid suspended above her head. The door swung closed with a soft thud, the group of them standing in the middle of the room like a huddle of awkward penguins - she lethargically turned her head to the noice; her eyes seeming to focus as she caught a glimpse of the five of them, and her swollen lips parting in a pained half-smile. Nigel grinned at this, walking forward to take the seat by her side, gently clasping her hand between both of his.   
"...you have no idea how glad I am to see you," her voice was thin and rasping, like she'd recently swallowed a substantial amount of gravel. Nigel pursed his lips, tutting.   
"Look at the state of you, sweetheart..." he sighed through his nose, caressing her hand with a thumb. "I'm so sorry..."  
"No, I- I'm sorry I kept you all in the dark," she laughed a little, giving a small groan with pain as her body jolted. "You must've been worried sick. I just...I was too ashamed."  
"Ashamed of what? Don't be stupid," Finn dumped the bag of her stuff on the floor, kneeling down by Nigel's side.   
"I didn't do anything..." her voice cracked with the ghost of a sob as she spoke, the cracks in her facade beginning to show. "This...this brute was on top of me, absolutely laying it into me - I could've shouted, I could've tried to get away, but I didn't. I just lay there, and did absolutely fucking nothing..." she pulled her free hand away from Nigel, using it to wipe away the tears from her eyes. Her knuckles were scraped, two of her false nails missing - one having taken about a third of her real nail with it; leaving behind an oozing bloody mess at the tip of her finger. That didn't look at all like no struggle.   
"Bernadette, you can't say that," Finn sighed, shaking his head. "What could you have done? He was clearly stronger than you; you could've gotten yourself into a lot more trouble if you'd tried to escape..." he trailed off, knowing what he wanted to say but unable to find the right words. She dabbed at the underneath of her eyes, a drawn smile on her face.   
"Jesus, what a fucking mess..." a sardonic laugh followed this, dry and humourless. "I hate that you all had to see this."   
"The only problem is that it's happened at all, darling," Oliver had stayed standing up, hovering a few metres behind the rest - Noah knelt by Finn's side, and Logan sat cross-legged at Nigel's feet. "Don't blame yourself, it wasn't your fault."  
"So, what exactly's the damage, then?" Logan asked tentatively, his glance inconsistently meeting Bernadette's - flitting between her and the adjacent wall. Bernadette pursed her lips.   
"Broken clavicle; six cracked ribs, one broken; punctured lung, minor fractures in my jaw, eye socket, nose, and skull; seven chipped teeth, twelve stitches, nine staples, and a mortally wounded pride. All to the tune of a few thousand dollars." They collectively grimaced at this.   
"Jesus, that's fucking steep...What about the guy who did it, is he in custody? They should make him pay for this at the very bloody least," Nigel said, his brow furrowed and a scowl on his face. Bernadette shook her head.   
"I'm not pressing charges - I can't, there's no point. They'd call it gay panic syndrome, give him a telling-off and a slap on the wrist, and send him on his way. Even if he'd killed me, it'd've made no difference at all."  
"True, awful as that is," Finn sucked his teeth, rubbing her uninjured arm in sympathy. "Nobody deserves this kind of pain, dolls. You shouldn't have tried to do it alone. We're all here for you - I mean, we're practically your family for Christ's sakes." She gave a weak nod, her lips twitching.   
"I know that. But I...I don't know. It feels like I was hoping that if I just didn't acknowledge any of this, then it'd go away." She sighed. "And I...I can't help but feel as though all of this was somehow my fault..." The quintet seemed to collectively wince at this; Nigel's head dropping and his voice seeming to crack as he tried to speak.   
"Bernadette-"  
"Look, I know what you're going to say, but it doesn't help. I didn't listen, I was reckless - I did a stupid thing, and now I'm being punished for it..."  
"Look, you did all the right things," Finn observed, perching on the edge of her bed. She flinched at the movement. "You were sober - no drugs, no booze, no nothing. You weren't in drag. You weren't anywhere you'd never been before. You said nothing. You pursued nobody. It's just...one of these things." He sighed. "It's unfortunate as fuck, mind you. But...it's not because of you."  
"It's my fault. For...for being what I am." She spat out the 'what' as though it were bile - and the way it resonated in the ears of her company, if felt just as caustic and unpleasant. "I-"

She was cut off by the opening of the door - a heavy sigh coming from the brunette, full-busted nurse who entered through it. Scoffing, she rolled her eyes.   
"Can none of you bloody read? One visitor to a bed - says so on the door, see?" She gestured to the window - as though they would be able to ascertain the message of the sheet of paper from seeing the back of it through frosted glass.   
"Oh, piss off," Oliver curled his lip, thrusting out one hip to the side as he leaned casually on the bedside table - other hand on his hip. This ended fabulously for him - and indeed the rest of them; exhausted and matronly in her appearance and tone, four of the five were shown exactly where the door was, and threatened with a boot where the sun doesn't shine if they didn't follow her directions - a snide comment passed under her breath about them being 'a bunch of nancy-boys', just loud enough to be audible.   
"Come on," she stood over Nigel with her arms folded. "Out. You heard me."  
"What happened to 'one person per bed'? Surely to Christ I don't count as more than one person."  
"Ms Waite isn't in a fit state to be seeing visitors."  
"Surely that's her call?"  
She shook her head. Bernadette rolled her eyes - well, he assumed it was both of them, what with one being too swollen to see her iris.   
"If I don't have anybody with whom to speak besides yourself for another two days, darling," she turned her head to the other woman; her tone snide even although her voice was gravelly and pained. "My chances of doing myself in increase tenfold at the very least. Just let him stay." The nurse pursed her lips, looking daggers at the injured woman.   
"Very well," she said, dry and deadpan. "Get it over with." She turned on her heel - muttering under her breath once again, though neither were listening. Bernadette sighed heavily as she left the room. Nigel looked to her with a furrowed brow.   
"Ms Waite? You've got to be fucking joking."   
"I never did get around to formally changing my name," she said, smoothing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I'm sure that the whole 'sex change' thing is on my records somewhere, so they didn't question referring to me as a woman. As for the name..." she gave a small, defeated groan. "It just makes me feel even less like a human being than I do already...god, this is awful..."   
"I know, sweetheart..." he sighed, taking her hand again. "I can't tell you how sorry I am. I shouldn't have let you go - I should have gone with you..."  
"And what would that have culminated in? You'd just be lying in the same state in a room across the hall..."   
"It's not even been a fortnight since I was here with Darla - the world's going to shit..."   
"You're not wrong."  
"...It was Farrah's idea to call this place when we couldn't get through to your home phone. Jesus, Bernice - you had us all worried sick...I thought you'd been killed."  
"I'm sorry..."  
"Look, stop apologising. It's not helping anybody." He folded his arms, seeming to draw away from her. "...sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I...I didn't sleep last night - I was too worried. We found out around midnight - I was all for coming here right away. Thankfully Farrah was in a slightly more rational frame of mind..." he gave a tenuous laugh.   
"I was scared shitless, Ivy..." she sighed. "I remember...it. Then I woke up drenched and covered in my own blood and vomit, and for a moment I forgot what had happened...then the second that I remembered, I wanted to die..."  
"...how the hell did you get here?"  
"Three drunk twentysomething girls. One of them tripped over me, saw me crying - swiftly followed by the state of my face - and brought me here in a bloody taxi. Not that I remember any of that..." she trailed off into mumbling. "It's all dribs and drabs between waking up and this morning. But I remember fucking everything about it happening..." Nigel sucked his teeth, shaking his head slowly.   
"It's so unfair..."  
"I know, but there's no point in dwelling on that now." She tried to channel determination of one degree or another in her words, but it simply came off forced. Her fave crumpled, and tears began to fall into her lap. "...I'm so sorry, Nigel..."  
"What've you got to be sorry for, pet?" He sighed heavily. "You did nothing wrong..."  
"...I didn't want to upset you. I didn't want any of this. And I..."  
"You what?"  
"I'm thinking of retiring."  
"You're fucking what?" He looked at her incredulously. "Bernadette, no."  
"I-"  
"You can't. I won't let you."  
"Ivy, I'm terrified. I can't go back..." she sniffed. "Because...one of these days, it'll happen again. How long until it's worse, or- or until one of us is fucking killed?"   
"I hate to be practical, but amongst other things, it's your job. And your only one at that - what sort of credential is 'female impersonator in dodgy vaudeville club who shakes her arse and mouths other people's songs for a living'?"  
"I'll get by..."  
"No you won't. You're scarcely even managing now..."  
"I suppose it doesn't help that I feel about as hideous as I no doubt look."  
"I don't know what you're on about."  
"My face, Nigel...it's a mess - and don't lie to me, because I've seen it..." he shook his head.   
"Nothing that time and a little TLC won't fix, darling. You'll be alright."  
"And what about if I'm not?"  
"You will be in the end. Not being alright currently is just significant of the fact that it isn't the end yet."  
"...I feel like I'm trapped. Like nothing is ever going to truly matter ever again - it's as though I can't remember how to stop being miserable."  
"And we're all here for you." He stopped - taking her free hand in one of his. "Bernadette, whether or not you choose to stay with us - which I hope you do. Because I fucking adore you, and work wouldn't be the same without you. But regardless of that - we are your family. And we're here to help you through this. Whatever you choose to deny or embrace, you belong with us." She smirked.   
"Pat Benatar."  
"Of course."  
"You're so fucking gay..." he smiled, giving her a small wink.   
"As a maypole - always have been and always will be. Besides that...I love you, Bernie. It's going to be okay."  
She sighed. "...I'm not sure."  
"What's there to be unsure of? Mummah's here for you, darling. And I'm going nowhere."

FIN~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously said, this piece is mostly self-indulgent but I've enjoyed it. I've got another piece in the works specifically about Farrah/Finn if anybody cares.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is a touch self-indulgent - I went to see Priscilla live a few nights ago, and I got inspired to continue with the piece I was sure I'd finished months ago. There was a fair bit of talk of Bernadette's past, which then led to the desire write a little more to go alongside 'Pouring' and the nonsense that's stemmed from it. Ivy, Darla, Farrah (who I had come up with before hearing about both the character of the same first name in the show, and the same full name of the new Drag Race cast...), and Missy were all characters I'd previously developed somewhat in a fic I abandoned, so getting to use them for something rather than allowing them to just gather dust for the rest of time was nice.
> 
> I have mentioned the sort of camaraderie associated with Les Girls before when I write from Bernadette's point of view, and writing it is always something that I've thought about. I think it works well in this context - you get a good mix of the banter and the familial closeness in times of need. Next and final chapter coming along soon, lovelies~


End file.
